Something I said, in memory,
Something that haunts me every day,
As I look back on tempestuous times.
Times of strife, chaos, disorder, conflict.
Times of sadness, anger, violence.
Those days are not my fondest.
Growing up in my mother’s home,
We argued, we fought, we shouted,
There were hurtful experiences to be sure.
And on those days, when the tension
Boiled over into an expression
Of hit and miss, chase and tag, and
The belt would come out. Oh, the belt!
Those times I would run to the front door,
Unlock it as fast as I could, and run
Down the sidewalks and across
The streets of my neighborhood,
In my socks, or barefooted,
In the rain sometimes, or after dark,
To my friend’s house, where I could cry,
And then relax and forget, and then
I could be safe again, and then,
My mom would call, to check to see
If I was there, and she would say
I should come home. And when
I was sure the storm had passed,
I would go home again.